She sat down by the paperrack with a general feeling of resemblance to Vivie Warren, and looked through the Morning Post and Standard and Telegraph, and afterward the half-penny sheets. The pouting cherry lips were slightly parted and the very faintest of panting breaths, together with the quick rise and fall of an alluring bosom, betrayed her fear. It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. And yet, at the end of this prayer a subconscious thought broke through to consciousness. " "So it is, child. Blotted out—Love! With infinite care, through nearly a thousand pages, her father had obliterated the word Love. ‘You will have to prove it, you know,’ Gerald said quietly. ” “Well, tell me.
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